


Because

by MadnessofVoid



Series: Sterek Bingo 2017 [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Horror, Mentioned Kate Argent, NOTHING IS AS IT SEEMS, Other, Psychological Horror, Psychological Torture, don't believe everything, kinda saw-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-04
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-26 12:38:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10786899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MadnessofVoid/pseuds/MadnessofVoid
Summary: “How about letting me go, you fucking psycho?!” he barked hoarsely.“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Now now, where would the fun be in that? No...we have only just begun the game.”He clenched his teeth together, pushing himself upright and glaring furiously at anywhere he could above him. “Why are you doing this?!”No reply. Utter silence. This only made Derek that much more infuriated. He reached for the scale, throwing it down onto the floor with an echoing crash.“Why are you doing this?!”Then, from behind him, in his ear, came a low whisper. “Because I can.”





	Because

**Author's Note:**

> Another dark one for you guys! Definitely inspired by things like Saw (though I have only seen clips), Silent Hill, and Resident Evil VII. 
> 
> Again, I shall warn you, this fic has psychological torture with a little bit of physical. But it's mostly psychological. It's what I think has more of an effect in the horror/thriller genre more than blood and gore. 
> 
> Theme is Horror.
> 
> Oh! And one more thing! Don't believe everything they say.

**_**Go tell Aunt Rhody,  
Go tell Aunt Rhody,  
Go tell Aunt Rhody,  
That everybody's dead...** _ **

  
  


  
  


He awoke with jolt, gasping for air like it was going out of style. He clambered about, struggling to gather his bearings. His feet kept slipping from under him and his entire body was aching. Right...some asshole had nabbed him and dragged him into the back of a van. Beat the shit out of him, too. Probably had some serious bruising across his ribs. At least no bones were broken...

  
  


When he finally could stand and even out his ragged breaths, he began to survey his current surroundings. The room, or wherever he was, was pitch black – nothing to be seen. Nothing to be heard. Nothing to feel but the cold ground beneath and the stale stench of mold floating in the air. All of this rang of a horror movie setting, and that did not bode well. Because as much as he enjoyed horror movies, horror video games, American Horror Story...he did not actually want to be a part of a real life horror _anything_. Vicarious living suited him much better.

  
  


“H-h-hello?” he called out, voice shaking. “Anybody there?”

  
  


He paused, rolling his eyes when he realized what he just did. “ _Oh...great idea, dude. Do one of the big no-no's in the horror genre. Fantastic. You're gonna die.”_

  
  


As if an answer to his call, there was a whirring sound above him. Gears and machinery moving about. He cried out, ducking just in case. Didn't want to get nicked by something. He was sore and terrified enough, thank you.

  
  


Suddenly, lights flooded the room, nearly blinding him. He shielded his eyes, cursing under his breath. Whoever the asshole who kidnapped him was...totally getting it later. Kidnapping a PI was a bad idea!

  
  


“State your name.”

  
  


The voice rumbled throughout the area, sounding oddly like a cheap voice changer anyone could buy at Wally World. It was probably supposed to sound intimidating. If it wasn't for the fact that he had no idea what was going on and no idea where he was...it would have sounded funny.

  
  


“H-huh?”

  
  


“STATE! YOUR! NAME!”

  
  


The voice sounded furious, causing him to almost drop right back to the ground. He squinted up at the ceiling, hoping to pinpoint where the intercom system was. Maybe find a few wiring to follow. But there was nothing. Just unfinished, cement ceiling, and wooden floors – all caked with dried blood and decaying mold.

  
  


“STATE! YOUR! NAME!”

  
  


He flinched, now glaring with agitation. “Okay, okay! I get it! Sheesh...” He heaved a sigh, hands on his hips and eyes back to squinting (but still glaring, because he needed to look scary for whatever hidden cameras there were watching him). “It's Stiles. Stiles Stilinski. There. Happy now, oh omnipotent voice?”

  
  


A chuckle. Did not sound too friendly. “Do you like to taunt those that mean to do you harm?”

  
  


“Um...is that a trick question?”

  
  


Another chuckle. “Your humor might save you, Mr. Stilinski. Or...it might kill you, instead.”

  
  


Stiles sucked on his lip, wondering what the hell was in store. “Can we just assume I'm gonna live and not die? Because I enjoy living. Maybe not a whole lot, but the idea sounds much better than option two.”

  
  


“There is a door at the end of the hall. Once inside, there will be a table with items you will need in order to make your way to where you will meet up with your partner.”

  
  


Partner? Was there someone else trapped in this place with him? But why? What was going on here? Was this a game? Was this a test? Just what was this sicko _doing_?

  
  


“There will also be instructions. Follow them carefully. You wouldn't want to die now, would you?”

  
  


An intense feedback shook the walls. Probably would've sent them collapsing if they were any weaker. Didn't leave much comfort. None of this did. In fact, judging by how empty his pockets felt, it looked like Stiles was all alone in this one. Until he found his partner, that is.

  
  


_“When I get out of here...this guy is getting his ass tossed in a cell...” he muttered to himself._

  
  


He didn't dare think 'if I get out of here'. The idea of not making it out of whatever the hell he was about to endure with a possible stranger would only cripple him. Make him too afraid to move forward. And that would not do. Likely would lead to death instead.

  
  


So, with a shaky sigh, Stiles marched towards a dimly lit archway he didn't notice till now.

  
  


The hallway he entered, like the room before, appeared poorly finished, if finished at all, and was littered with mold. But, unlike the room he woke in, the lights above weren't blinding. They were flickering, playing off the horror cliché fairly well. If there was ominous music, it would complete the sense of dread Stiles felt.

  
  


With each step there was a creak and a groan to follow. The air was stiff – as if to say that something was lurking nearby. The door at the end of this seemingly never-ending hall had its own set of lights, which flickered heavier than the rest.

  
  


Stiles was in a literal horror cliché.

  
  


It would be so fascinating if he wasn't the guinea pig trapped in it...

  
  


Upon reaching the door, he heard a static sound on the other side. Like a radio. Maybe is was a police scanner with a radio? He could call for help! Ha! In your face, creepo!

  
  


But when he swung open the door, ecstatic about the potential find...his heart immediately sunk into the acidy pits of his gut.

  
  


It wasn't a police scanner with a radio. Instead, it was a claustrophobic type room made of metal, caked in rust. The lights were still flickering, with the exception of the very middle of the room. There, under the dim lighting, was a decrepit hospital gurney, carrying four items: a small clip-on radio, a clip-on flashlight, an old looking crowbar, and a folded piece of parchment paper.

  
  


“What kind of Silent Hill bs is this?” Stiles muttered, wary to enter.

  
  


He would've stayed right there in the doorway, staring at the gurney with fear...if it wasn't for the fact that the lights behind him had gone out. And that he heard someone, or _something_ , breathing somewhere down that hall. He bolted inside, hurriedly slamming and locking the door. Seconds after, there was banging on the now closed door...insistent with coming in. Stiles quickly backed away, eventually bumping against the gurney. Nearly knocked it and himself to the floor.

  
  


The banging ceased after the sounds of clattering. Only heavy breathing, breathing louder than the frightened man's, remained. Then, as sudden as it all began...it just...stopped. It was likely the sicko that kidnapped the PI had been the breather and banger. This enraged Stiles. To the air, because he was positive that there were hidden cameras somewhere, he held up his middle finger and spewed the few Polish curses he learned from his late babcia.

  
  


“I'm gonna find you, and fuck you up! You hear me!? You won't get away with this!”

  
  


As a response, the room was plunged into deep darkness. Save it for the surprisingly strong light from the clip-on flashlight, and a weak light on a door sloppily painted black. Stiles yelped, startled and annoyed all at once. Whoever this guy was...they certainly had a flair for this haunted house shit.

  
  


Still annoyed, Stiles grabbed the clip-on flashlight, knowing that light was the key item he needed right now. It was a struggle to get it on in the dark, hands blocking the light as he fought with the cheap little clip. Finally, he got it on at the perfect level where he could see ahead as if he was holding it in his hand. He let out a victory whoop and gave himself a high-five.

  
  


(He'd give himself a proper reward after he got out of this alive.)

  
  


Next came the clip-on radio. That was an easy one – straight on the right pocket. Strangely, once clipped on, the static stopped. Maybe it was going to be more like Silent Hill than he imagined. An enemy came by – the radio would go off. He just hoped that one of the said enemies wouldn't be a Pyramid Head...

  
  


He grabbed the crowbar, examining it more closely. With one good hit, this sucker was going to snap. Why the hell his captor gave him such a poor quality weapon was beyond him. Fake sense of security, possibly. Or just wanted to see him panic once it broke. What an ass.

  
  


Lastly, he picked up the folded parchment, snorting. Too much detail went into all this. It was almost cheesy. Terrifying, but cheesy. He opened it, squinting to see the chicken scratch of writing scribbled down on it. The instructions he was promised.

  
  


  
  


_As you make your way to your partner, you will face challenges and horrors beyond your comprehension. You must survive all of these in order to meet your partner. If you fail any of them, you and your partner will suffer. If you perish – your partner will perish. The same punishments will befall you if your partner fails. Your only choice is to stay alive until you meet up with your partner. Once you meet up with them, everything will change. You must work together to escape. If you don't – you both will die. Your goal is to stay alive. If you succeed, I will submit all evidence of my guilt to the police and go into custody quietly. If you fail...you will be a part of my collection forever._

  
  


_With love,_

  
  


_Your host_

  
  


  
  


Stiles gawked at the so-called instructions, stunned by all of it. Collection? Was Stiles and his mystery partner not the only victims? How many people had been through this fun house?

  
  


That didn't matter right now. What mattered was the fact that this was a life or death situation until proven otherwise. He tossed the instructions aside, gripping to the crowbar as if his life depended on it. Because as far as he knew, despite how shotty this weapon was, it did. He took a deep breath, determination burning in his eyes. He was going to live through this. He was going to live, find this partner, get out of here with this partner, and make sure this guy rotted in a cell.

  
  


Supposedly sensing his fire, the sloppy painted door squeaked open, revealing darkness more pure than anything he had seen thus far. Gulping, he took a step forward, his grip on the crowbar tightening.

  
  


This was it. No turning back now. Not like he had a choice to. His life, as well as a stranger's, were at stake. He couldn't cower in a corner now...

  
  


****~+~** **

  
  


He awoke to sputtering out dirt that found its way into his mouth. Groaning, he rolled onto his back, his ribs searing with aches. His head, too. He laid there, eyes squeezed shut and grimacing in pain. Where was he? How did he get here? Why couldn't he remember anything?

  
  


“ _Hospital...why is this place designed like a fucking hospital?”_

  
  


The voice echoed throughout wherever he was. Was someone here with him?

  
  


He creaked his eyes open, blinking a few times to dispel the blurriness of his vision. He found himself in what appeared to be a cellar of some sort. The floor was covered in dirt, the wooden beams above moaned with weight, and there was a dip in the floor feet away from him filled to the brim with water. It was an odd location, but it reminded him of somewhere.

  
  


If only he could remember...

  
  


“ _Shit! Hole!”_

  
  


There it was again. That voice. It was coming from across the water passage.

  
  


He rolled onto his stomach, hissing. Whoever hit him, hit him good. Normally, he wouldn't feel this sore. Not even after an intense workout. He knew he needed to rest a little more, at least until he didn't feel like he had been mowed over by a truck. But as he heard the floating voice scream off the walls, he fought against the aches. He got to his feet, grunting and hissing some more. Whoever it was that owned this voice he was hearing, they better have answers. They _needed_ to have answers. Needed to...

  
  


Staring at the water ahead, he cursed and thanked his lucky stars that he was tall. If he was shorter, he could easily drown. Then again, he still could. Water was always quite the deceiver.

  
  


Suddenly, there was a vibrating feedback drowning out the mystery voice. He winced, the sound not helping with his pounding headache. It ended as fast as it had come, leaving him confused. What was worse was that the mystery voice, the very thing that drove him to open his eyes and rise to his feet, was slowly fading away.

  
  


“You look very panicked.”

  
  


This new voice spooked him to his very core. The voice changer sound brought back horrid memories of the first time he was kidnapped. Back when he was younger. When he was so trusting. How could he have fallen back into this mess again?

  
  


“Definitely responded differently than your partner did.”

  
  


He furrowed his brows, staring up at the ceiling. The kidnapper had to be watching somewhere. Cameras were definitely lurking around. Made sense to talk at the air.

  
  


“Partner?”

  
  


“Yes. You already heard his voice. He is somewhere in the compound. Your goal is to find him while surviving challenges and obstacles. If you fail any of them, you will not only receive punishment, but your will partner as well. You die – he dies. The same rules apply to him as well.”

  
  


He paled, feeling ready to pass out. This all felt vaguely familiar. But why?

  
  


“Now, cross that water like a good boy, Derek Hale. Find your partner. Make sure you both survive.”

  
  


The feedback returned – louder this time. Derek covered his ears, falling to his knees. It lasted for several minutes before leaving with a cackle meshed into the wretched sound. Whoever this monster was, they certainly were trying too hard.

  
  


But it still had an effect.

  
  


Derek already had too many people die because of him. He was not going to add one more to that list. Even if it was a complete stranger. And if he died because of the stranger, that would be okay. He would deserve it. But the stranger didn't. Not because of him...

  
  


He crawled back to his feet, lips drawn out in a flat line. He glowered at the water path ahead only briefly before he took a step in. Instantly, he was overcome with a jolt of icy coldness, causing him to momentarily stop his decent. He breathed in and out heavily, rapidly, with his body shivering feverishly. How in the hell was water this cold in such a warm location?

  
  


“ _So...what's behind door number two?”_

  
  


The voice was back. The other victim trapped in here with him. Sounded so young.

  
  


Derek exhaled deeply, full of conviction. He slid his other foot into the chilling water, muscles tensing and hissing in protest. In a moment of human weakness, he stood there, arms raised and hands balled into fists, unable to proceed.

  
  


“ _Empty. Damn, man. Not even a little lore note.”_

  
  


How the hell was this stranger acting so calm? Possibly feigned? Keeping the sanity by playing it off as a joke? Was a good tactic. Well...only for so long.

  
  


“ _The scares are starting to lose their effect, dude! Though the atmosphere is sure on fucking point...”_

  
  


That got a chuckle out of Derek. And gave him a burst of energy to move forward.

  
  


It didn't take long for the icy waters to reach all the way to his armpits. He raised his arms as high as he could, panting almost frantically as he sloshed through. It wasn't entirely terrifying to him, just uncomfortable. But that was probably the point. The real fear was just beyond this. Or, maybe, just maybe, there was no real terror at all. Just some prank being pulled on him by his publisher. Isaac did like to play sometimes on the fact that Derek was a horror/thriller novelist.

  
  


Out of nowhere, the lighting suddenly became dimmer. It was more difficult to see what lay ahead. Then there were the sudden, random beams above him. Derek had to lower his arms and carefully maneuver under each beam, irked by the different leveling of them. The structure above him was likely not sound with how uneven these beams were laid. That was the true horror – the idea that an entire building of some kind could just buckle and crush him down into murky, filthy water. He silently prayed that the building wouldn't come down upon him.

  
  


The beams started to level out. They started getting lower and lower. All the way to the point that he had to basically sputter out water with almost every step. It was growing increasingly claustrophobic, and he hoped that this watery walk was going to be over soon. At least the water was becoming warmer. Small comforts and all. Especially with the voice of his unknown partner gone all over again.

  
  


His next step was a doozie. A hidden dip in the path caused Derek to take a quick swim in the murky water. He suffered a small burst of panic before he shot right back up, gasping frantically for air and nearly smacking into the beam above.

  
  


Might've been much better than what he came face-to-face with...

  
  


Bobbing in front of him, swollen with decomposition, was a male body. Derek let out a horrified shriek, flailing and falling back into the water. When he popped up, he didn't even bother to check if the body was real or a prop. He swam as far as he could away from it, his chest swelling with terror. Real, actual terror.

  
  


This wasn't a game. It was _never_ a game. And he knew that now.

  
  


**~+~**

  
  


“I'm getting really sick of these stupid empty rooms! There is no point to them!”

  
  


Stiles slammed the door of the sixth empty room shut, no longer spooked by the rusty appearance of this part of wherever he was. Even the fact that it was designed like a hospital no longer made him scared. He was just annoyed. Like things were being dragged out. He stopped anticipating the worse and began to anticipate the monotonous empty rooms down this stupid hallway. Didn't even know why he was bothering to look anymore. Wasn't worth it.

  
  


Except for the fact that this creep said there were challenges lurking about. One could easily be behind a door. Or it could all be a lie. Either way, he didn't want to risk being wrong and stop checking room after room after room. Better safe than sorry, right?

  
  


“M'kay...another door.” he huffed after barely five steps. “Let's see what's behind door number seven! Magic number. Whoooooo.”

  
  


He kicked the door open, thoroughly done with all this. But to his surprise...there was something in this room. He shot his hand forward, stopping the door from swinging shut. He slipped inside, intrigued and hoped that he found a clue.

  
  


If a small, 90's styled TV, channel set to screeching static, sitting on a too loved vanity was a clue...

  
  


Stiles approached it with caution, getting a Resident Evil VII vibe from it. Maybe it would give him a hint of how to solve some puzzle? Wouldn't that be hilarious!

  
  


As he got closer, it shut off, plunging the room into minor darkness. (Hard to be full darkness with a flashlight clipped onto Stiles' shirt.) Then, it snapped back to life, words now on the screen in an grainy, old film sort of way. He inched closer, leaning in and squinting as he read the words.

  
  


“ _Beware, beware, O' souls lost to the world. For you will linger behind and hunger. Hunger, hunger, hunger, until judgment comes, with those trumpets a'sounding._ The hell does that mean?”

  
  


The screen flickered, the image shifting away from the words. On the screen was an old timey picture of a man hanging from a tree by his neck in what looked to be Asian garb. His eyes were bulging, seconds shy from popping right out of his skull. His jaw was wide open, elongated, with an inhumanly stretched out tongue lolling out. The skin was stretched back, as if the face was a mask, and was unhealthy in coloration. The fingers were long as well, with nails sharpened like claws. Same with the toes and their nails.

  
  


Stiles leaned away, confused by the image. The tongue part, and the hanging part, reminded him of the Chinese ghost called diào sǐ guǐ, which literally translated into _hanged ghost_. But everything else was...wrong. Either whoever made this didn't know the real description of a diào sǐ guǐ...or this was some type of hybrid for the uncomfortable factor. Which was working. Stiles was _highly_ uncomfortable right now.

  
  


Again, the screen changed. More words this time. And they read:

  
  


  
  


_You'll know when they'll come by the gurgles they make and the warning of your radio. You can survive them, but you'll have to follow specific rules. Fail to follow them...you and your partner will die._

  
  


  
  


“Such a ray of sunshine. Must be a real hoot at parties.”

  
  


He cleared his throat, covering the flashlight's bulb so he didn't get a glare while reading the rest of the message.

  
  


  
  


_When they get close, you must bow your head, close your eyes, cover your mouth, and hold your breath. If you fail to do so, it will eat you. Eat you right up. Once they are far enough away, you may move, but you must shuffle slowly. Keep your head bowed and hand over your mouth. When your radio stops with its warning...RUN RUN RUN._

  
  


_With love,_

  
  


_Your host._

  
  


  
  


“The fuck is going on here?”

  
  


Behind him, he heard the door groan open with no help at all. He whipped around, hand falling away from the warmth of the light to reveal what was there. There was nothing. But the hallway had changed. He cautiously stepped forward, eyes wide. The rusty hospital look was replaced with a hallway full of cages. Cages for animals. And there were remnants of blood and fur.

  
  


“Okay...okay...this shithead has skill. I'll give him that. This is _reeeeeeaaaaally_ unsettling.”

  
  


He let out a nervous chuckle as he passed by the rows of cages, breathing unevenly. It was at that moment when he noticed that he could see his breath. That was strange. How could he see his breath? It was unbearably hot right now. He was sweating through his clothes! Whatever the answer...he sure as hell didn't want to know it.

  
  


He made his way onward, gripping the crowbar hard enough to turn his knuckles white, poised for an attack. Small little crunches echoed from under his feet with each step, making him hope to whatever entity that was out there that it was just bugs and not small animal bones. Please no small animal bones. The very idea made him want to vomit.

  
  


The hair on the back of his neck stood up the further he ventured down the forever hallway. He started hearing echos of animals long forgotten rattling the cages...but there were no animals in sight. Sound effects. Fantastic. Fucking cliché as hell. But...but goddammit, did it work.

  
  


Then, he heard a sound he had hoped he would never hear. Two sounds, actually. One was the static of his clip-on radio. The other...was a gurgling sound of someone fighting to breathe.

  
  


He froze in his tracks, trembling violently. The static on the radio rose in volume. So did the gurgling. He saw the feet with the long toes and long, claw-like nails. That was it for him. He didn't want to see anything else. He dipped his head in a bow, squeezed his eyes shut, covered his mouth, and retracted his breath right back into his lungs.

  
  


And then he waited.

  
  


He waited as the radio static became overwhelming. He waited as the gurgling roared over the static. He waited as he felt the figure loom over him, the stench of death floating there. He waited as he felt the tongue move around him like a snake sniffing out the world. He waited as hands ran through his hair, like a lover would do. He waited as his chest felt ready to burst from the lack of oxygen. He waited as the thing finally started to lose interest and limp on by him. He waited as the gurgles grew farther and farther away, giving him the chance to begin shuffling slowly. He waited until the radio fell silent again.

  
  


Then...he ran, ran, ran.

  
  


Ran all the way to the end of the hall. Ran past all towers of cages, now filled to the brim with the bones of unfortunate animals. Ran all the way to an iron clad door with what felt like a million deadbolts lining it.

  
  


Frantically, Stiles yanked at each bolt, his hands shaking heavily. He had to get out of here. He had to get out of here now.

  
  


“C'mon. C'mon! For the love of god, how many fucking deadbolts does one door need?!”

  
  


Gurgling. Static. Oh hell.

  
  


He let out a terrified whimper, ripping at the deadbolts with more vigor. He was not going to die. Not today. Not in some...horror fun house made by a sick bastard with no life!

  
  


Finally, the last deadbolt was undone. He threw open the door and immediately flew inside. He slammed it behind him, locking it with the four deadbolts it had. He wheezed and teared up, never being so scared in his entire life. Sliding down to the floor, he decided a break was warranted. Time to catch his breath, time to clear his mind. But also swim in the thousands of questions he was bombarded with.

  
  


The break was very short lived. A bit hard to relax and try to retrain in the proper breathing methods when a monster pile of twitching centipedes laid at his feet.

  
  


Also was hard when he was screaming himself hoarse. Especially when the door was torn off its hinges...and he was dragged back the way he came.

  
  


**~+~**

  
  


This place, this compound, was certainly elaborate.

  
  


Once minute, Derek was in a strange cellar full of dirt, water, and a body bobbing about in said water. Now, after gathering his bearings and happily crawling through the surprisingly roomy vent shaft given to him as an exit, he was in a 50's styled hotel room with an aquarium full of dead fish.

  
  


The fish reminded him of the body. The swollen, flesh peeling off the face, jaw opened, empty eye sockets, wrinkly body.

  
  


It all came rushing back to him in a flash. He couldn't bear it any longer. Staggering, he made his way to the bathroom, that had not been clean in a century, and emptied the contents of his stomach in the tub. The image, the smell, of that poor soul kept flooding his mind. Which in turn, sadly, caused him to keep puking until it was nothing more than a dry heave of soiled air.

  
  


Time passed slowly, feeling like only a minute or two of constant dry heaving turned into ten. When he finally was able to stop himself, he slumped against the wall, not giving two shits about the grime likely sticking to his back. He had no idea why a body, real or prop, bothered him so much. It wasn't his first body. He had seen many before this moment. Maybe it was because he couldn't tell who it was, couldn't put an actual face to it, that made it unsettling?

  
  


Or maybe it was the fact that it was in some serious decomposition and the stench was...

  
  


Derek hiccuped, covering his mouth and swallowing the empty bile threatening his dried throat. He needed to calm down. Needed to move forward so he could get himself, and the mysterious partner, out of here. Needed to stop being the character from his books that his readers scoffed at. (Though his reaction was more than perfectly normal, all things considered.)

  
  


Wobbling, Derek got to his feet. He swayed on his feet as he left the bathroom, trying to regain his normal breathing. When he looked up so he wouldn't bump into anything, he stopped dead in his tracks, brows furrowed in confusion. Last he remembered, he was in a poorly kept 50's hotel room...not in a massive room with an equally massive ball pit that brought back terrible memories of Chuck-E-Cheese's.

  
  


“I see you have arrived to your first challenge, Derek Hale.” the captor's distorted voice echoed from above.

  
  


Derek swallowed, chest rising and falling rapidly. The first challenge. What in the hell was the challenge if it included a ball pit filled with the same, clear colored balls?

  
  


“If you would...please climb into the pit.”

  
  


He would argue if he could. Argue loud and full of venom. But that bobbing body danced in his mind once again. He wanted to live. And, from his experience, you have to obey till you found an opening to flee. So, cautiously, he approached the ball pit, scanning it over to make sure there wasn't anything in there. The horror stories of discarded needles, dirty diapers, bodies sitting right in front of the image of the possible real corpse in the water. He hoisted himself inside, sinking into the pit with a cry of shock. How in the hell did he miss the fact that there was water keeping the balls afloat?! Was it the lighting?! Was he just blind!?

  
  


The captor chuckled mockingly, enjoying the reaction. “Sorry. I have a thing for creating illusions. It's a passion of mine.”

  
  


“You should've gone into show business...” Derek growled, lip curled upward.

  
  


A loud, booming laugh. “You are a perfect match for your partner! Can't wait till you two meet! But, until then...”

  
  


The lights suddenly went off, plunging the author into complete darkness.

  
  


Almost.

  
  


The balls in the pit lit up with neon colors under an unseen blacklight. There were various colors bobbing about in a tight knit group, seemingly taunting him. His attention was drawn away from them when he heard a whirling mechanic sound on his right. Not long after the sound came did a stand appear from out of the floor. On it was a scale reading zero, along with a cage with an open top. It too was lighting up under the invisible blacklight. A silver color. Pure silver.

  
  


“Now, Derek Hale, here is your challenge: There are five orange balls...”

  
  


A clicking sound startled him, causing him to face in the direction of it. On the wall in front of him did the words _5 Orange Balls_ emerge in, well, orange neon.

  
  


“Twelve blue balls...”

  
  


_12 Blue Balls_ showed up under the orange lettering in blue.

  
  


“Nine red balls...”

  
  


_9 Red Balls_ in red.

  
  


“Three gray balls...”

  
  


_3 Gray Balls_ in a more silver color, but it was clear what color it was supposed to be.

  
  


“Ninety black balls...”

  
  


_90 Black Balls_ looked more gray-blue.

  
  


“And seventy green balls.”

  
  


_70 GREEN BALLS_ appeared more brightly than the others, and in all caps. Odd...

  
  


“Now...”

  
  


On the wall, a set of words appeared in glowing purple:

  
  


  
  


_What is in a_

_S_

_H_

_A_

_D_

_O_

_W_

  
  


  
  


What is in a shadow? What did that have to do with the balls?

  
  


“Show your work by using the balls and put them on the scale. You have five minutes to complete the challenge.”

  
  


Show work? What work?!

  
  


“But, in your haste, make sure you are gentle. Some of your companions here have a bit of a...nasty surprise awaiting you. Don't worry. They won't harm you seriously. Just cause...discomfort.”

  
  


Derek's heart roared in his ears now. What the hell was in these balls that might cause him discomfort? A slew of items raced inside his mind. Each worse than the last.

  
  


The voice chuckled and sighed, as if taking pleasure in seeing Derek's panic. “Good luck.”

  
  


Silence. Followed by the sudden appearance of a timer and screeching audio of a cheering crowd. In his confusion, he wasted ten seconds of his measly five minutes. Panic set in on hyper drive. He immediately started grabbing balls and tossed them into the scale, hoping that it would work.

  
  


A loud, obnoxious, and all too familiar alarm sounded off. Derek stumbled backwards, covering his ears and swearing rapidly. The balls were flung back at him. One exploded open on his left shoulder. And it wasn't long before he noticed a needle protruding from his shirt. He let out a scream almost as loud as the alarm, ripping it out and tossing it across the room. In his panic, he fell backwards into the balls and the water. He thrashed about, feeling more sharp objects jabbing into him. His chest tightened, as if he was having...

  
  


Shit.

  
  


No no no no!

  
  


He couldn't have a panic attack under the water! He'd drown!

  
  


Somehow, despite his clouded mind, he shot upward, gasping for air and yanking out an array of needles and...were those fangs?!...off his skin. His chest heaved and his gasping became wheezy, almost whimpering-like. Quickly, he plugged his nose and closed his mouth. He counted to ten in his head before allowing himself to once again gasp for air. His chest stung, his head pounded with aches, and he felt immensely exhausted. He clung to the edge of pit, groaning as he fought to regain focus.

  
  


Whoever this bastard was...he was going to punch them in the throat before curb stomping it once they met. _If_ they met. For this sicko's sake, he hoped they didn't.

  
  


He cleared his throat, face scrunching into a furious scowl. Okay, so random balls didn't work out. There had to be a method to this challenge that made no sense. He glanced over again at the words on the wall, hoping to discover something new. There had to be some sort of clue there. Something to make sense of this whole 'here are the numbers of balls in this color' and, oh yeah, 'what is in a shadow' nonsense.

  
  


That's when he noticed something.

  
  


The way shadow was written out...it wasn't altogether. Each letter was under each other. Like...like maybe some sort of math equation. It would make sense with the whole 'show your work' aspect of the instructions. But was the equation?

  
  


“You have three minutes remaining, Derek Hale. Would you like a clue?”

  
  


Defiant, Derek glared at the ceiling and flipped it off. He knew he shouldn't have done that. Would likely screw him over. But he was done being calm and one hundred percent cooperative. Now he was just pissed.

  
  


“Ah. Turning into your partner, I see. Very well. I will give you a hint.”

  
  


There was a pause, possibly for dramatic effect. This bastard...

  
  


“Roses are red, violets are blue, your eyes are green, now isn't that quaint? Almost two minutes left, Derek Hale. Think fast.”

  
  


What the hell? What kind of hint was that!?

  
  


Then, suddenly, it clicked.

  
  


Derek _knew_ this scenario. Knew it _intimately_ well.

  
  


He swallowed, staring up at the word shadow again. The equation was the numbers each letter was in the alphabet, added together. That number was the number of balls needed for the scale. The number of balls with the same number as the equation was the color that the scale had to have. How did he not know that?!

  
  


He was the one that wrote it, after all...

  
  


“S is nineteen, H is eight, A is one, D is four, O is fifteen, W is twenty-three. Nineteen plus eight, plus one, plus four, plus fifteen, plus twenty-three is seventy.” the author muttered to himself, eyes drifting to the number of balls and their colors. “Seventy...seventy...green. Green has seventy.”

  
  


He hurried as fast as he could, grabbing as many green balls as his arms could hold. He tossed them into the scale before going back for the ones he couldn't get before. It was a set of frantic motions as well as attempting to be careful. He didn't want any more needles or fangs sticking him. For the god, no more of that.

  
  


“Time for the countdown, Derek Hale.”

  
  


His chest seized, another attack threatening him. He forgot about being careful and just threw himself into the search for the remaining green balls. He hissed and cursed with each pop of a ball, with each prick of a needle or fang.

  
  


“Twelve...eleven...ten...”

  
  


“Fuck you!” he cried out, tossing three more green balls into the cage.

  
  


“Nine...eight...”

  
  


He had two more balls. The scale said so. Two more. Two more. Where the fuck were the last two balls?!

  
  


“Seven...six...five...”

  
  


He found them, tossing them into the scale. Except one of them bounced off. He nearly sobbed with the amount of panic beating against his chest. He almost threw himself out of the pit, reaching down and scooped up the runaway ball. He slammed it into the cage, slumping over and heaving out breaths of pained relief. A roaring, recorded cheer filled the room, making his anger rise to the point of threatening to bubble over.

  
  


“Well done, Derek Hale! Well done! You finished the challenge! With mere seconds to spare! You deserve a reward for your accomplishments! How about...meeting your partner early?”

  
  


“How about letting me go, you fucking psycho?!” he barked hoarsely.

  
  


“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Now now, where would the fun be in that? No...we have only just begun the game.”

  
  


He clenched his teeth together, pushing himself upright and glaring furiously at anywhere he could above him. “Why are you doing this?!”

  
  


No reply. Utter silence. This only made Derek that much more infuriated. He reached for the scale, throwing it down onto the floor with an echoing crash.

  
  


“Why are you doing this?!”

  
  


Then, from behind him, in his ear, came a low whisper. “Because I can.”

  
  


He seized, eyes wide in terror at the recollection of the words. And when the hands wrapped around him, a cloth covering his nose and mouth, he began to fight as hard as he could. He clawed at any bit of skin that he could, screaming against the cloth. The world started to fade out – go blurry. That's when he realized the stench of the cloth against him. He screamed louder, trying to lift himself up to throw off the balance of the attacker.

  
  


It did little good.

  
  


In a matter of what felt like hours...he was surrounded by emptiness.

  
  


**~+~**

  
  


His hands stung. So did his ankles. And his throat felt tight. Something was on them. Had to be.

  
  


Stiles groaned, rolling onto his back. His sputtered out rigid coughs that racked his entire body with intense aches. As if he had been beaten down again. Like he needed any more bruises. He bruised like a peach! And nobody likes bruised peaches!

  
  


“Ugh...fuck me...”

  
  


He rolled onto his side, finally opening his eyes to survey his surroundings. He knew he should've expected horrible shit in this place. Honestly, it wouldn't be much of a horror cliché if there wasn't any expected horrible shit. But, honestly, he did not expect to be face-to-face with a grayish-blue skinned, frozen in a terrified scream, in heavy rigor mortis woman. Who was dead. So very dead.

  
  


He unleashed the most ear splitting scream he could muster, flinging himself away. He didn't get far, the pull of the chains from the cuffs on both his wrists and ankles jerking him right on top of her. He screamed again and again, rolling away and thrashing about. Several times, he kept meeting with her. Eventually, he was able to roll far enough away to have some distance. But it certainly wasn't enough.

  
  


Stiles sat up, wiping himself down frantically and sobbing uncontrollably. Well, the thought of somebody else having to suffer through this was no longer a thought. Someone else _had_ suffered. And that someone was dead in this very room.

  
  


“Okay...okay...breathe, Stiles. You gotta breathe. You can't freak out. Freak out time is done. So done.”

  
  


It wasn't. He was hyperventilating and couldn't stop sobbing. He had no idea who the dead woman he was sharing the room with...but she probably didn't deserve to die in this place. And the very idea that he could die as well...

  
  


A groan stopped his pessimistic thoughts. He jumped, shrieking shrilly. The groan came again, this time directed towards his shriek. He looked around trying to find where the groans were coming from. It didn't take long, fortunately, for him to spot a cage used for animals some feet away from him.

  
  


Inside the four padlocked cage was a man. A massive man. Barely fit inside. He was curled up in a not so comfy looking ball, clothes looking wrinkled as if they were drying from being drenched in water. Around his neck there was a collar with little boxes on it. It made Stiles feel around his neck, discovering that he had a collar with little boxes as well. He swallowed, watching as the man stirred awake.

  
  


“H-hey. I-I guess you're my partner, huh?”

  
  


The man leaned his head back as far as he could, dazed hazels staring right at the PI. “Nng...”

  
  


“All right. Guess we can't use words yet. I understand. But...um...could you maybe speed up that process? We need to figure out how the hell to get out of this place before we join the dead lady over behind me.”

  
  


The man blinked, head raising and falling around like a bobble head. When it finally managed to hold still on his right shoulder, his lips parted enough to reveal bunny teeth. Cute. But oogling over the stranger was not important right now. Right now...they needed to get the hell out of here.

  
  


“I'm Stiles.”

  
  


The man nodded, eyes having trouble keeping open. “Derek.”

  
  


“Derek! Okay! Good! We're getting somewhere! Do you know what's going on here? Like...why this creep is doing this?”

  
  


“He said...because he could...”

  
  


“Fantastic. So he is a monster psycho. Lovely. Okay...so...anything else you know?”

  
  


“He...he modeled...some things...after my book...”

  
  


“Your book? You write?”

  
  


“Uh-huh...”

  
  


“Okay...so he is a fan. Great. Maybe he is trying to impress you?”

  
  


“Dunno...”

  
  


Derek's head drooped and he started to slump down again.

  
  


“No no no no no no no no! Stay with me, Derek! We have to get out of here! We can't die like blondie over here!”

  
  


Stiles tried to get up – tried to get to the other victim. He had forgotten about the chains attached to his hand and ankle cuffs. He was thrown back, almost meeting up with the deceased woman again. He groaned along with Derek, laying there in searing pain.

  
  


“Ah.” came the mystery voice of their tormentor. “I see that you two have met. How nice.”

  
  


“Fuck you, buddy.” Stiles rasped.

  
  


“Always so angry with me, Mr. Stilinski. You hurt my feelings.”

  
  


“You have feelings?” He laughed sharply, instantly regretting it seconds later. “That's rich.”

  
  


“Mr. Stilinsk, Derek Hale, now that you have met up...it is time for your first joint challenge.” the voice said, as if Stiles hadn't made a jab at all. “Mr. Stilinski, as you have noticed, you are currently chained by your ankles and wrists, as well sporting a lovely shock collar.”

  
  


Shock – shock collar?! That's what was around his neck!? Oh lord...

  
  


“And you, Derek Hale, well, you may have noticed that you too are sporting a shock collar, as well as taken shelter in a most form fitting cage with some padlocks.”

  
  


Derek groaned, head lifting up and his eyes squinted. He was far too out of it to notice much. Or maybe he was more there than it appeared. Either way, he was struggling, and that was bad news for Stiles.

  
  


“Each of you will have a chance to unlock yourselves. Ten minutes to do it, actually. However, get the wrong key into the slot...”

  
  


Out of nowhere, a sharp shock shot through Stiles' entire body, the brunt of it around his neck. He screamed, body arching upward and jerking against the current. He could hear another scream merged with his, which meant Derek was definitely waking up now. Then, as soon as it came, the electricity was gone, leaving both men lying there in numbed agony.

  
  


“You will receive a most unpleasant shock. Sounds fair, right?”

  
  


“Asshole...” hissed Derek. Yep. Definitely more alert now.

  
  


“Again, you have ten minutes.”

  
  


A rainfall of keys dropped from absolutely nowhere, clinking and clacking everywhere they touched. Stiles shielded his face, swearing profusely with each key that toppled on top of him. From the corner of his eye, he could see Derek doing the same thing, except he was better about the swearing bit.

  
  


“Now...begin.”

  
  


Not wasting a single second, Stiles grabbed the first key in sight, frantically trying to unlock the handcuffs. It didn't fit. A jolt of angry electricity went through him. He screamed in pain through clenched teeth, trying to fight through it as he attempted to see if the key worked for the cuffs on his ankles.

  
  


They didn't.

  
  


As he was shaking from the third shock, he could hear Derek trying to keep his pained shouts muffled. He glanced over at his partner, seeing him writhe but still working with the key on the next padlock. It worked. The lock plopped to the floor. Stiles shared a breath of relief with Derek, clapping his hands the best he could.

  
  


“Keep it up! We can do this!” cheered Stiles, hoping to boost the confidence despite the situation.

  
  


“Shouldn't you be focusing?” Derek huffed back, not bothering to celebrate and went for another key.

  
  


“I am!”

  
  


To prove it, he grabbed another key and went for his ankles first. Didn't fit. Electric shock. He took a second to heave breaths of frustration before going for the handcuffs. Didn't fit. Electric shock. Key number three. Didn't fit. Rinse, lather, repeat.

  
  


Derek let out a slew of curses, holding onto the key for dear life as he was punished for not finding the right one. His focus was intense. He almost wasn't bothered by the electricity hounding him with failure after failure. It was inspiring, honestly. Ignited a new fire within Stiles. He picked up his eighth key, spitting out random words in Polish that he didn't even know what they meant.

  
  


The key worked. The handcuffs popped off. Stiles whooped, tossing the cuffs as far as he could away from him in victory.

  
  


“Good job.”

  
  


“Thanks, buddy. Once I get out of these, I'll help you out.”

  
  


“Same to you if I get out first.”

  
  


“We both have one each – it's up in the air right now.”

  
  


“Five minutes.” crooned the distorted voice.

  
  


Stiles laughed with annoyance, flipping off the air. “Screw you, too, pal.”

  
  


“Focus!”

  
  


“I am! Jesus...”

  
  


He went for another key, praying it would fit. And, of course, it didn't. He clawed at the collar, both in an instinctual reaction and an attempt to get it off. Maybe he could get it off and focus a little easier on finding his final key.

  
  


A small triumphant cry came from Derek's corner. Stiles looked over and saw a second padlock fall from off the cage. He echoed the triumphant cry before dividing his attention between the collar and his ankle cuffs. The next key didn't fit. Or the next. Or the next. Electric shock. Electric shock. Electric shock. He spasmed and fell onto his side, groaning. Okay, split attention bad. Focus on one or the other.

  
  


He sacrificed the hope that he could get the collar off and focused on his cuffs.

  
  


Another cry of triumph came from Derek, which made Stiles a little jealous. How was he getting so lucky while Stiles was slowly becoming a human lightbulb?

  
  


“One minute left, gentlemen.”

  
  


There was a small pause between the men, before they both breathed out, “Oh shit.”

  
  


They became erratic, grabbing a mess of keys and going to town. If the echoing screams were anything to go by...they weren't doing so hot. It was down to the wire. There was just...no way. They were going to fail...

  
  


Then, by some sheer dumb luck, Stiles found the right key to his ankle cuffs. He gawked at it, unable to process that he had done it. He had actually done it!

  
  


“Thirty-five seconds, gentlemen.”

  
  


“Ohhhhh fuuuuuuck!” He tossed the cuffs away, scooping up keys and almost slipped on the others still around him. “I'm coming, Derek!”

  
  


He was certain that Derek hadn't heard him. Screaming in pain and all. He skid to his knees in front of the cage, frantically trying out keys. With each scream from Derek, panic rose and thundered in his chest. He was starting to heave out broken breaths, terrified that they may not make it.

  
  


“Twelve...eleven...”

  
  


“Fuck you, asshole! Derek...Derek, I'm gonna get you out! I promise!”

  
  


“Ten...nine...”

  
  


Stiles swore rapidly under his breath, trying key after key. Derek kept shaking under the shocks, but never once stared at Stiles like he was the enemy. Definitely reassuring.

  
  


“Five...four...”

  
  


“Fuck fuck fuck fuck...”

  
  


“Three...two...”

  
  


The padlock popped off. Right as he heard a muffled one from far off somewhere. Both men stared at it, eyes ready to pop out and overwhelmed with a slew of emotions. They had been holding their breaths as well if the shaky, shared exhales said anything.

  
  


“Down to the wire. I am impressed. I suppose I can relieve you from your collars.”

  
  


And just like that, they popped off, falling with deafening clanks. There was a buzzing sound nearby, stealing their attention from the collars to wherever it came from. Right behind the dead woman, a door slowly opened, revealing a very well lighted hallway. The most comforting thing Stiles had seen since waking up in this hellhole.

  
  


They wasted no time, both of them tearing open the cage door and scrambling to their feet. They rushed towards the door without looking back. Well...almost. It only took a second for Stiles to realize that Derek was not with him. That Derek was staring at the deceased with a mixture of anger, confusion, and fear. The PI studied the array of emotions, a little suspicious of them. Why would Derek have that kind of look for one person?

  
  


“Someone you know?”

  
  


Hesitation. A flicker of grief. A flicker of agony. Then, slumped shoulders and confliction. “Her name was Kate Argent. She murdered my entire family.”

  
  


That took Stiles by complete surprise. “That's...wow...uh...that's pretty...” He cleared his throat, sharing the slumped shoulders with his partner. “I'm sorry...”

  
  


Derek cleared his throat as well, smiling with a closed mouth and fury reflecting in his eyes. “It's fine. She deserved whatever this bastard put her through.”

  
  


“No. No no, I totally agree. Didn't when I first saw her, but now that I know that she – was there a motive to that? To kill your family, I mean.”

  
  


“She didn't like the fact that her sixteen year old boyfriend dumped her because his sister sat down with him, and explained that he was being...”

  
  


The word hung in the air. A word that needed no saying. Stiles got it. He swallowed, feeling disgusted that someone like Kate existed. He reached out for Derek, his hand hanging there to be grabbed if he wanted it.

  
  


“C'mon. Let's move on. We can't stay here.”

  
  


Derek stared at Kate a little longer before nodding. He took Stiles' hand, squeezing it tightly, almost inhumanly, as he stepped over Kate's corpse. Stiles kept leading him, tugging him so he would keep going forward. There was no stopping and no hesitation. Derek followed obediently into the hall. Too obediently. Stiles quickly released his hand when he thought it would be a good time, licking his lips anxiously.

  
  


“So...I know a little bit about you now. Guess I can say a little about me. Um...I'm a PI. And my dad's the sheriff. So, well, if we can catch this guy after all this, we can throw his ass in jail. Let him rot. Maybe find out why the hell he made this fun house of horror. You said this is like a copy of your book or something? Do you know what happens next? Or is it not in chronological order?”

  
  


A huffy sigh. “Only two rooms were from my book so far. From what I've seen. The room I was in before, and the key room.”

  
  


“Jesus, you like your horror? 'Cause that was some sadistic shit back there.”

  
  


“There are worse things than what we just went through. At least they let me dry out before the shock collar.”

  
  


“It wasn't like that in the book?”

  
  


“No.”

  
  


The PI dragged a hand down his face, a little unsettled with being in the same space as this guy. Then again, authors and what they wrote never had connections.

  
  


_Usually_.

  
  


“Okay, let's compare notes of our experiences so far, since this hallway looks forever long and we have a breather. Maybe you'll find something else from your book? And it might help us dive deeper into this dick's mind and find a better motive behind all this.”

  
  


Derek nodded, folding his arms and appearing thoughtful.

  
  


“Cool. Great. So, I'll start. When I woke up...”

  
  


**~+~**

  
  


Stiles was right about the forever long hall. Derek would find it strange...if it weren't for the fact that this was something from his novel as well. The brief moment where the characters could have a moment to breathe and feel safe. Which, if their captor was focusing on this one novel, this safe period was going to end the minute they reached the door at the very end...

  
  


The “notes” Stiles shared with Derek seemed off. Nowhere in any of his novels did he have a creature like the one described. Nor did he base anything off of a hospital. Not yet, at least. And it was odd that Stiles received a note, while Derek was spoken to. Perhaps Stiles was correct. That this creep was a fan of Derek's and was trying to impress him in some way. But, in a creative freedom sort of gesture, the captor was taking inspiration for other sources as well.

  
  


It was impressive, all things considered. Just not as much when it was actually life threatening.

  
  


“So you have seen two dead bodies now? Damn. Do you know who the first one was?”

  
  


Derek shook his head, brow furrowed. “Too decomposed. The water didn't help.”

  
  


“Do you think that this guy is...killing people that caused you problems? And I'm just here 'cause he needed a second person?”

  
  


He shrugged, not wanting to think about it further. Because Kate wasn't the only one that had done something that changed his life in a horrendously tragic manner. Because Derek was a goddamn tragedy magnet.

  
  


He heard Stiles sigh with agitation and felt guilty all the sudden. If it weren't for Derek's book...Stiles wouldn't be here. Then again, there would likely be a second person here with him regardless. Stiles was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or...the right place at the right time...

  
  


“What's this book that this asshat is taking inspiration from?”

  
  


At least the constant babbling helped to drag him away from his thoughts...

  
  


“It's called _Because_.”

  
  


“ _Because_? Never heard of it.”

  
  


“It was...my very first one. When I was being self-published. Not many people know about it unless -”

  
  


“Unless they are a monster obsessed fan?”

  
  


He nodded, inhaling sharply. “The scenario was like this. Two strangers put in a horror fun house situation by a serial killer that enjoyed torture porn and seeing the horror in people when they were faced with these cliché situations. Ex psychiatrist. Ended up being an ex of one of the characters. Their response when asked why they did this was -”

  
  


“Because I can...” Stiles breathed, realization washing over him. “Holy shit...”

  
  


“Yeah...”

  
  


“Fuck. D-do you think it's an ex of yours doing this? Did you date a shrink?”

  
  


“No, I did not date a shrink. And unless my last ex was released from their life sentence conviction...no.”

  
  


“What about Kate?”

  
  


“She had broken out of prison a month back. Been living in fear for a long time.”

  
  


“How do you know your last ex didn't either?”

  
  


“I would've been called.”

  
  


“Christ...you have bad luck with the ladies, don't you?”

  
  


“My last ex was a man.”

  
  


“Shit. Bad luck with _both_ genders. That's rough.”

  
  


The author didn't reply to that. Because replying to it would only make it sound all the more real how much of a tragedy he lived in.

  
  


“If it makes you feel any better...I don't have that great of luck, either.”

  
  


That didn't make him feel better. It did, however, make him glower at the closing gap between them and the door. The door that, if this maniac was following some rules of his book, would lead them into a pit full of broken glass and a challenge. One almost less pleasant than the last.

  
  


“You must really hate that door. That's okay. I don't like the color yellow, either.”

  
  


He rolled his eyes, exhaling with a grunt. “If whoever is doing this is following my novel...that door will lead us into a pit of broken glass. And a challenge of finding a needle in a glass stack.”

  
  


He could feel Stiles' gawk at him. Burnt into the side of his skull. Was uncomfortable but...that was generally people's reactions when they heard about the things he wrote.

  
  


“You a fan of the Saw movies?”

  
  


“Nope.”

  
  


“Really? Because that sounds very Saw-ish.”

  
  


“Thought it was overrated.”

  
  


“And yet you could seriously walk into their boardroom and give them fifty new ideas to use for a new movie.”

  
  


Derek rolled his eyes again, not amused but at the same time laughing on the inside. (Mostly because someone from the Saw team actually asked for his help on their newest movie one time.)

  
  


“So...that door, if the book is being followed correctly, has a nice dive into broken glass?”

  
  


“Yes.”

  
  


“I hope to whatever higher power there is out there that this sicko isn't following this book to the tee now. That the random pattern is still being followed...”

  
  


They fell silent after that – the dread of what was behind that door looming over them. It amped up the closer they got. Rattled their bones. Perhaps weighed down their souls. It sure weighed on Derek's. Because...if he hadn't wrote this book back in his early days...

  
  


Whereas before it felt like the door would never get any closer...now...here it was. Right in front of them. Mocking them. Tempting them to just sit there and never open it. But that wouldn't fly with their captor. Likely would make the situation so much more worse.

  
  


“M-m-maybe we could open it quick? Like ripping off a bandaid?” Stiles suggested, voice shaking.

  
  


Derek nodded, silently volunteering himself for the task. He reached out for the knob, swallowing over and over the lump that kept rising in his throat. He could feel Stiles grabbing at the hem of his shirt, as if he was the one opening the possible door to a glass pit. In a way, it was comforting. In another way...it was annoying and not making him feel any better.

  
  


As suggested, once he could breathe, Derek yanked the door open like he was ripping off a stubborn bandaid. Almost closed his eyes during the process. But if he had done that...he wouldn't have seen that no, there was not a pit of glass on the other side of the door. Which was a comforting thought. In fact...this room was particularly...comforting.

  
  


Too comforting.

  
  


“Well...this is...nice...” Stiles mused with skepticism.

  
  


The author agreed with a nod, stepping inside cautiously. If there was a trap, he deserved to be caught in it. After all...it was his book that his monster was taking inspiration from...

  
  


As he entered, nothing happened. Nothing at all. He glanced back at the PI, bewildered. His partner shared the same look as he followed closely behind. They continued further into the room, surveying their surroundings with paranoia. Still, nothing happened.

  
  


What was the catch...?

  
  


Suddenly, the lights went out. Even Stiles' clip-on flashlight went dark. There was the slam of the door shortly after, once again plunging them into nothingness. Stiles swore loudly, moving wildly behind Derek, likely making obscene gestures. Derek, on the other hand, held completely still. Terrified more than angry.

  
  


The darkness seemed to last for eternity before lights flickered back on half heartily. The room was still the same, just with different lighting. Amazing what a dimmer tone in a room could do to a mood. Then, out of seemingly nowhere, balloons began to fall all around them. Colorful, cheerful balloons.

  
  


And Derek knew what was going on now.

  
  


“Does this room look familiar, Derek Hale?” sneered their captor.

  
  


Having been sold out, Stiles moved closer to him, trying to get a read on him. His own expression morphed into wariness when he saw how Derek looked. He swallowed in sync with the author, leaning away and staring at the balloons as if they were poisonous. Which was about right, in a way. In his book, the balloons either had a key to get them out of the room...or full of gas that could cause some form of harm. Not as bad as the glass but...harmful gas...

  
  


“Now, as much as I loved this part in your novel...it is a little more difficult to get such gases outside of fiction. Unless you have special licenses. So...some changes were made. And they are much more enjoyable.”

  
  


“Your version of enjoyable is not what ours is!” barked out Stiles shakily.

  
  


There was a chuckle before a low rumble shook on other side of the men. Both jerked, looking around in terror.

  
  


“On the door in front of you, (A spotlight blinked on over the door. For dramatic effect, obviously.) you will notice a special kind of lock. On this lock, there are not numbers. On this lock...there are pictures. Three of them, to be exact. Of course, you could easily cheat and take hours finding the right combination for the lock by playing with the lock, instead of popping the balloons to look for the pictures you need like you're supposed to. That's why I have put an incentive in this room for you.”

  
  


The rumble came again. This time...with more of a purpose.

  
  


Taunting them, the walls were inching every so slowly towards them. That was the incentive. Find the codes in the balloons before being mushed into a bloody sandwich. There was no need for a further explanation. Both men dove to the floor and urgently began to pop balloons. Which was much harder than anticipated.

  
  


“Couldn't that dick have given use something to pop these with?!” hissed the PI.

  
  


Derek was about to agree, when he thought of something. “Your clip-ons! There should be something to hold them together!”

  
  


Immediately, Stiles tossed him the radio before breaking the clip on his no longer functioning flashlight. Derek followed suit, breaking it and taking the component holding it together. Before he could even pop his first balloon, this intense wailing noise filled the already rumbling room. They both screeched with the wailing, covering their ears and nearly toppling over. And as quickly as it had started – it ended.

  
  


“What the fuck?” Derek breathed, stealing his attention in his partner's direction.

  
  


On the floor, surrounded by balloon bits, was a tiny box with a flashing red light. Of course there was a punishment for popping the wrong balloon. _Of course_ there was. Because the idea of dying by being crushed to death wasn't punishment enough!

  
  


Derek brushed aside his rage, breathing evenly as he went on a mad dash to pop as many balloons as he could. Every single one didn't give him the piece of the code he needed. Just obnoxious wails. And Stiles was not having much luck either, if the joined wails and vehement swearing said anything.

  
  


How convenient it was that the walls were moving slow enough for them to make so many errors.

  
  


After what felt like centuries piled upon centuries...Derek didn't get a balloon that wailed. He couldn't help himself at that point. He let out a grateful sob and held onto the wooden block that fell out of the ruined balloon for dear life. He didn't even look at the picture etched onto it. He was too relieved and eager to have another success that he moved onto the next balloon.

  
  


More wails filled his ears before he eventually heard Stiles cry out victoriously.

  
  


It was a nice sound. Would be better without the impending doom of the closing space.

  
  


Through the onslaught of seemingly never-ending wails, it became clear that they both had grown more frantic in their search. Because there was only one more picture left for them to find. One more before they could fight to create the right combination. More time to lose. More time to waste. More time for their captor to drink their terror.

  
  


The urgency went through the roof as balloons became less and less plentiful. As the walls inched closer and closer. Claustrophobia was growing. Derek felt his chest and throat tighten, making it harder to breathe. He gritted his teeth, spitting out profanities in his head and violently attacked any balloon he could get his hands on. He was not going to die. Not here. Not when someone else could die too because of him. Not again.

  
  


Everything became a blur. Everything became quiet. Nothing was real. A dream. A void.

  
  


“Derek! Derek! You got the final piece!”

  
  


Those words broke him out of his haze. They were muffled, yet loud and echoing. Everything came back to him in a whirlwind senses. Then, it all slowed back down once more as he stared at the block on the floor. The last piece. The last piece for the code.

  
  


In no time, he scooped it up, scrambling to the exit. He could hear Stiles' shoes squeak behind him, bringing his piece of the code. He handed them all to Stiles, hoping he understood that one of them was going to read off the pictures and the other was going to work at the lock.

  
  


Thank god Stiles did.

  
  


“Okay okay okay okay okay...we have...a fetus, a tombstone, and a hanging man. What kind of Resident Evil bs is this?”

  
  


“Stiles!”

  
  


“What?! Oh! Uh-uh...try it in that order! Fetus, tombstone, hanging man!”

  
  


He did. Nothing happened when he tugged at the lock.

  
  


“That's not it!”

  
  


“Okay okay, uh...try it backwards! Hanging man, tombstone, fetus!”

  
  


Nothing.

  
  


“Shit! Uh-um...tombstone, hanging man, fetus?”

  
  


Nothing. Walls moving faster. Getting closer.

  
  


“Oh my god...”

  
  


“Stiles!”

  
  


“Yes! Okay! Ahhhhh....try tombstone, fetus, hanging man?”

  
  


Nothing. Walls closer.

  
  


“It didn't work!”

  
  


“Fuck! Try Hanging man, fetus, tombstone!”

  
  


“You're running out of time, gentlemen.” crooned their captor.

  
  


“Fuck you!” snapped the men.

  
  


“Try fetus, hanging man, tombstone!”

  
  


Nothing. Derek screamed in frustration, yanking manically at the lock. This was it. This was how he died. The walls were barely inches away from crushing them. It was all over. If anyone found them...they would be a pile of blood and bones...

  
  


The walls stopped. Just...stopped. Mere inches from rendering them to nothing...and they just...stopped. And the lock? It popped right off into Derek's hand, mocking him in a way. He stared at it, chest heaving and mind buzzing. What the hell? Why did it all stop? Was it no longer fun for this sicko? What...

  
  


The door swung open swiftly, revealing what looked like...

  
  


“Is that...a control room?”

  
  


Derek didn't respond. He just stared ahead, confused. Why was there a control room on the other side of the door? Was this where their captor sat, pulling all the strings? It was rather small – swallowed mostly by a long desk and several monstrous sized monitors. Nowhere to hide at all in such a tight space.

  
  


So where was the puppet master?

  
  


The monitors snapped to life, nearly blinding the author, who had unconsciously entered the room to investigate. Roaring static filled his ears. Perfectly accompanied by snow dancing across the screens. Images flickered across the screens – jumbled blurs, nothing concrete. Finally, the images settled.

  
  


On one monitor was a woman propped up like a scarecrow, jaw hung open and eyes pulled back by clips in a faux corn field that was obviously inside somewhere. On another was a man, maybe in his forties, sprawled out on the floor of a 60's diner, covered in blood and forks in the eyes. On the third was another man, younger than the first, sitting upright against what could only be described as a grandma couch, with what looked like claw marks all over his body. On the fourth was a second woman, slumped in a lifeguard chair by a decrepit, empty pool, a form of Garrote around her throat. On the final screen was a picture of identical twins, both in prison garb, and the picture was obviously taken from a prison security camera.

  
  


Derek felt ill. Incredibly ill. All these people...he knew them. Every. Single. Last. One of them.

  
  


“Do you like what you see, Derek Hale?” the captor's voice boomed. “I would have enjoyed showing you all these rooms, but that would've taken far too long. I have a tight schedule. No need to let anyone realize you're missing. And, unfortunately, your ex and his brother are much harder to break out of prison than Kate was. They must've learned their lesson. I'll get to them _eventually_.”

  
  


Derek glowered at the screens, feeling sicker by the second.

  
  


“Don't worry. Not everyone here is connected with you. That would just place suspicion on you...and we don't want that now, do we? People like Gerard Argent? I had a personal vendetta against him. He was the first body you saw, in case you were wondering.”

  
  


He exhaled shakily, nails digging into his palms. How many people had entered this fun house of horrors? How many people has this bastard killed?

  
  


“I have to thank you for your novels, Derek Hale. You are truly an inspiration. You should be proud.”

  
  


“Fuck. You.” gritted out the author, the sickness morphing into disgusted anger.

  
  


“I just have one final question for you, Derek Hale. Do you know why you should never trust a fox?”

  
  


He held his breath, waiting for the answer. The answer he knew. He just didn't see the point of it yet.

  
  


“Because they're tricksters. They'll fool you. They'll fool _everyone_.”

  
  


No longer was the ominous voice that loomed in the air covered up by a ridiculous voice changer box. It was out there now. It was real now. And it was familiar. Unexpectedly familiar.

  
  


Derek forgot how to breathe. All he could do was shakily turn around. Turn around to face his partner in captivity. There, barely a breath's width from him, was Stiles. Who was wearing a smirk. A wicked, _sinister_ smirk.

  
  


“What's the matter, Derek Hale?” he crooned. “You look like you have seen a ghost.”

  
  


There were many things Derek wanted to say at that moment. So many questions. So many words of disgust, hatred, confusion. None of them came to him. Him, who worked with words to make them seam together flawlessly, was speechless. All that came out was:

  
  


“You...”

  
  


Stiles chuckled darkly, licking his lips. He said nothing. Just reached out swiftly...and delivered a sharp poke into Derek's neck. The author stiffened, heaving and shaking. He felt woozy, sleepy. And, in a matter of seconds, he collapsed to the floor, fighting to keep conscious.

  
  


“Don't worry. You won't die.” Stiles informed in a seductively calm manner. “You'll just sleep long enough for you to be found.”

  
  


Found? By whom?

  
  


Derek didn't get to ask before he was swallowed whole by a deep, deep sleep

  
  


**~+~**

  
  


“...ir?! Sir?! Are you all right?! Can you hear me?!”

  
  


Muffled. Distant. Barely there. Who was speaking to him? Where was he? It felt different than the cold, hard floor he had been laying on before. He cracked open his eyes, the world a blurred mess. He couldn't tell who was above him. But he could tell they were shaking and tapping him. Medic, maybe?

  
  


Derek let out a groan, rolling onto his side. He felt lethargic, dizzy. A little nauseous. Everything was jumbled up. He couldn't figure out where he was or why. Nothing made sense.

  
  


Until it did...

  
  


His eyes snapped wide open, and he jerked upward a little too fast. He swayed slightly, groaning more and almost fell back over. The person there with him, someone in uniform, caught him. The hands were gentle and wary, likely spooked by all the sudden movements. Derek had to tell him what happened. Tell him about Stiles.

  
  


“Sir? Can you tell me your name?”

  
  


He nodded, trying to regulate his breathing. “D-Derek...Derek Hale...”

  
  


“Derek? Okay. What happened to you? Do you know why you're out in the middle of the woods?”

  
  


“I..I was kidnapped...”

  
  


“Were you kidnapped by the same person that kidnapped Mr. Stilinski?”

  
  


What?

  
  


_**What**_?!

  
  


Derek gripped at the man's shoulder, craning his head over him to see. Sure enough, in the back of an ambulance, draped in a shock blanket, was _Stiles_. He was talking to a police officer, gripping tightly at the blanket and making himself as small as he could. It was surreal because...because Stiles was his captor. Stiles had toyed with him, made him believe they were both victims, did some elaborate scheme that Derek couldn't even fathom creating in one of his novels!

  
  


Where he sat now...it was just another piece to the scheme.

  
  


Derek swallowed, unable to take his eyes off of Stiles. Unable to unsee what Stiles had put him through. Unable to get out of his head what lengths Stiles went through to do...whatever he was plotting.

  
  


What was Stiles plotting?

  
  


Why didn't he actually hurt Derek more thoroughly?

  
  


Why did he kill all those people that have helped rain tragedy on Derek's life?

  
  


How did he _know_ about all those people?

  
  


They connected eyes briefly as another man in a police uniform walked him towards a cruiser in a familial way. Likely a parent or uncle. Maybe a grandfather. Whoever this other officer was...he didn't see the devilish grin Stiles gave him. Or the wink.

  
  


“Sir? Sir, are you okay?”

  
  


Derek snapped to, blinking dully. He tore his eyes away from Stiles, looking at the man right in front of him.

  
  


“Sir, do you hurt anywhere?”

  
  


He shook his head, swallowing. “No.”

  
  


“No broken bones or pain in the head?”

  
  


“No.”

  
  


“Do you know what day it is?”

  
  


“May twelfth.”

  
  


“Do you know your name?”

  
  


“You already asked me that. And it's Derek Hale.”

  
  


“Do you know who kidnapped you?”

  
  


“....No.”

  
  


The man nodded, standing up. He then assisted Derek to his feet, keeping close and hands on him just in case the author took a spill on his unsteady feet. Derek was taken to a second ambulance, one not too far from the one Stiles had been in, and was sat down. A shock blanket was wrapped around him and his shoulder was patted. Another medic approached him, bombarding him with repetitive questions and a flashlight in the eyes. He answered everything with little to no emotion, something he was certain would be attributed to shock.

  
  


When an officer came to talk to him, he answered everything truthfully.

  
  


With the exception of one detail: who his kidnapper was.

  
  


He explained that he was certain that whoever did this wanted to appease him – show off that they knew of a book of his that only fanatics would know. That they knew about him enough to hunt down those that had harmed him in the past, and dispose of them as some sort of sick devotion. That he was certain more people were taken and killed to test out the funhouse. That the PI was just an opportune victim, someone to make the book _Because_ more life-like.

  
  


The officer nodded and kept asking questions here and there the entire time, jotting down the notes in his little pad. It felt like time was ticking by slowly with each question. Felt like ages before the officer excused himself with the promise of finding the person responsible. Derek nodded numbly, curling into himself. He just lied to an officer. He had just lied about who had whisked him away into a re-imagining of his old book.

  
  


And he had no idea why...

  
  


There was this strange sensation in his left pocket, startling him out of his minor stupor. He stuck his hand against the pocket, brows furrowed. To his surprise...it was a vibration. He shoved his hand inside, a sense of urgency overcoming him. What he pulled out was his cellphone. His _cellphone_. It was absent from him during his time at...wherever he was. And now...now it was right here. Like it had always been. What was even more shocking was that there was a message on there. Just one. He unlocked it with trembling fingers, going straight to the message.

  
  


It was from an unknown number...but he knew just who it was just by what was written...

  
  


  
  


_I knew you were just as twisted as me._

  
  


_With love,_

  
  


_Your Biggest Fan_

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk Sterek with me! :3
> 
> youfancymemaddearie.tumblr.com
> 
>  
> 
> Check out the Sterek Bingo event! So many amazing works reside there!
> 
> sterek-bingo.tumblr.com


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